


The Rules to High-Maintenance Poser Sexual Relationships

by easternepiphany



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easternepiphany/pseuds/easternepiphany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff Winger is many things, but easy to deal with is not one of them. Don't worry, because Britta's got you covered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rules to High-Maintenance Poser Sexual Relationships

**Author's Note:**

> An anon prompted fic about Jeff not making eye contact during sex. And well, it turned into this.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Libby for helping me and Britta come up with the rules.

**Rule #1: Do not even think about getting in the backseat of that Lexus without first laying towels down.**

For something that’s considered a sports car (Is a Lexus considered a sports car? Britta can never tell because the nicest car she’s ever owned was a 1998 Toyota Corolla whose dashboard lights sometimes went out while she was driving at night.) Jeff’s backseat is pretty damn roomy. Roomy enough for Britta to be on her knees  with Jeff’s cock in her mouth—although, to be fair, the passenger seat is slid all the way up, mostly because when Britta’s riding shotgun she doesn’t need much space for her short legs.

But anyway, the point is: Jeff has a nice backseat and the heat is cranking and everything’s all warm and Jeff is arching his hips up and making knots in her hair and Britta’s feeling pretty good. Then Jeff reaches down and tugs on her bra strap and she comes back up, settles on his lap and straddles him in her jeans, kissing him so her mouth suddenly tastes like double-Jeff.

“There’s a condom in my purse,” she gasps as his lips trail down her jaw, his tongue settling into that spot behind her ear.

“We gotta get the towels out of the trunk,” he murmurs into her skin.

She pulls back. “Wait, what?”

“The towels.” He runs a thumb along the band of her bra. “They’re in the trunk. We have to lay them down on the seats.”

“I’m not a _dog_ ,” Britta snaps. “And are _you_ going outside to get them? Because that’ll look really good to anyone passing by, you with your pants unbuttoned and your dick hanging out.”

He rolls his eyes. “This is leather interior, Britta. _Leather_. Do you know how hard it is to get sex stains out of leather? I have a nice jacket I can never wear again.”

She screws her face up in disgust. “Do you do this with all the girls you bring back to your fancy car? Cover the seats with ratty old towels so they don’t _leak_ all over your precious seats?”

“Well I sound like an asshole when you put it that way. Look, I really want to have sex with you. So I’m asking you, could you please put your shirt on and go get them?”

“No! It’s really cold outside and I don’t want to!” She leans in and drops her voice an octave, runs a finger along his cheek. “Come on. Let’s just do it. I’m wearing Hello Kitty underwear.”

There’s an unmistakable flicker of _something_ in his eyes and his lips part and for one crazy second, she thinks he’s going to give in. But then his hands leave her waist and when they return, he’s got something gripped in his left hand.

Her shirt.

“We’ll both go,” he says, giving her a gentle shove.

He ends up not even buttoning his jeans back up, just pulling them high enough and arranging his shirt so his erection isn’t _totally_ showing (although, spoiler: it still pretty much is). She sighs and shrugs her sweater over her head, resigned to the fact that if she wants to get laid—and she does, she really does, because what’s even the point of having no-strings-attached sex with your best friend if you’re not actually having the sex?—she’s going to have to get out of the warm, wonderful car and into the bitter November night to get _towels out of a trunk_.

“This is ridiculous,” she says as she slides out of the car and waits for him to follow. “As soon as this air hits your dick it’s all over and we’re going to have to start from the beginning.”

“Hmmm,” he says, very unconvincingly pretending he hadn’t considered the possibility. “I guess you’ll have to get them while I stay here. I’ll pop the trunk and grab the condom.” He shuts the door, leaving her outside alone in the cold. She stomps her foot on the ground and lets out a frustrated growl.

The trunk clicks as it flies open and Britta grabs the handful of towels. Underneath the towels is a case of Gatorade, so Britta twists the cap off of one and dumps it, soaking the carpet. With a satisfied smirk, she opens the back door, spreads down the towels, and finally gets laid.

 

**Rule #2: The Winger Morning Routine waits for no man. Or woman. Or Britta.**

The alarm goes off at six on Sunday mornings. Personally, Britta thinks _alarm_ and _Sundays_ should not be used in the same sentence or paragraph or universe, but trying to convince Jeffrey Stubborn Winger of this fact is a waste of breath. She’s used to it by now, enough to be able to ignore it and fall back asleep when he gets up to go running or do upside-down pull-ups or bench press 300 pounds or whatever stupid things he does too early in the morning.

But last night, they drank so much and so late that Britta’s still mostly awake when the room fills with the high-pitched beeping sound. She’s also still a little drunk and when Jeff groans and stirs next to her, she’s guessing he is, too.

He reaches over and turns the alarm off, sits up and rubs his eyes. Britta, who has been dozing on and off, rolls over and places her hand on his leg. “Hey,” she says. She still sounds drunk to her own ears.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice deep and gravelly and hitting her in just the right spot.  “I gotta get up.”

“You can skip a Sunday, can’t you?” she asks. “There’s no way you’re in the mood to run.”

He slides back down and adjusts the blankets over himself. “No, I’m going to go. I’m just going to sleep for a few more minutes.”

She shifts closer so she can lay her head on his chest. “But we were up so late last night,” she says lowly. She hooks her leg with his and runs her hand across his stomach. He’s half-hard against her thigh. “You should stay in bed instead.”

He catches her hand. “Don’t start something I can’t finish,” he says, eyes closed.

“So finish it.” She yanks her hand away and dips it below the sheet, brushing against the front of his underwear. He hums contentedly and she dares a glance at the clock: 6:02. She wonders if he set the snooze.

His arm wraps around her, comes down and around so he can sweep his fingers along the edge of her breast. He leans in to kiss her forehead and, with his other hand, he tilts her chin up to capture her mouth with his own, moaning into her as she works her hand beneath the waistband on his briefs. His hand cups her breast and squeezes gently in rhythm with her strokes, pinching her nipple as she runs her thumb over his head.

He lifts his hips off the bed so she can pull his underwear down around his thighs. He rolls her nipple between his fingers and she whimpers, breaking away from his mouth to kiss down his neck and to his chest. With a grunt, he comes against her hand and she kisses back up to his mouth as he slumps beneath her.

He pulls away and grabs a tissue off the nightstand, cleaning her hand gently. Bringing her wrist up to his mouth, he kisses her palm and then the alarm goes off again, the beeping echoing in the quiet of the room. Six-fifteen.

“I gotta go,” he says before he kisses her once more.

“What?” She raises up on her elbows and watches confusedly as he slides out of bed and grabs his running shorts and a t-shirt off the top of the dresser, where he leaves sets them out neatly on Saturday nights like they’re school clothes.

“I’ll be back in like an hour.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she yells to his retreating form as he rounds into the bathroom.

“I’ll be back in an hour!” he repeats. The sink starts running and she can hear him start to brush his teeth.

She sighs and pulls the blankets up over her head but when he pats her leg as he walks by, she sticks her middle finger into the air.

 

**Rule #3: No speaking of other men (or women, probably) in bed.**

“I went on a date with the worst guy last night,” Britta says. She adjusts the pillow behind her back and takes another gulp of wine.

They’re drinking wine in bed because Jeff just got Chang to leave his apartment and they’re celebrating with his big, soft bed and warm blankets. Sometimes they set up her laptop on the dresser across from the bed and watch Netflix in his bedroom and get drunker and drunker on whatever he has in his fridge. Tonight it’s a bottle of merlot he got in a Christmas basket from an old client who didn’t seem to get the memo that his lawyer was never a qualified lawyer. And it’s actually good wine and Britta’s laptop is old enough to have a screen big enough to see whatever movie they’re watching pretty well.

Jeff just shrugs, doesn’t respond, and downs the rest of his glass. He reaches over to the nightstand to pour himself another glass. It’s his third to Britta’s one.

“You remember, that guy that was hanging out with Troy and Abed? Luka?”

“Yeah,” he says flatly.

“Well, anyway, he ended up being a genocidal maniac. So I need to figure out how to warn Troy and Abed without them making fun of me. Or finding out that I went out with him, since they asked me not to.”

She presses her foot against Jeff’s leg to warm it up but he jerks away. “You’re freezing.”

“Well turn the heat up.”

“I don’t want to talk about your dating life.”

She pauses mid-sip and slowly turns to face him. His eyes are glued to the screen. “Sorry,” she says quietly. “What _do_ you want to talk about?”

“Nothing. I just want to watch the movie.”

“Okay.”

She crosses her legs beneath the blanket and sinks back, slouching a little. They watch the rest of the movie in silence and Jeff drinks another glass of wine. When it’s over and the credits start rolling, Britta stays still for a moment but then gets up to close the laptop. She crawls back into bed and drains her glass, setting it on the nightstand.

It’s completely quiet and Britta twirls part of the sheet around her finger. “Do you want to have sex?” she asks, mostly for something to say.

“Not really.”

“Okay so I guess I’m just gonna go to sleep then.” It’s only eleven-thirty on a Saturday night but she’s already in her pajamas—sweatpants and one of Jeff’s old t-shirts—so she slides down and pulls the blankets up to her chin. The lamp next to Jeff is still on, but Britta rolls over so her back is to it and him.

She’s not tired at all, but she evens her breathing and tries really hard not to move so maybe he’ll think she’s asleep and turn off the light and then maybe she can fall asleep for real. But he doesn’t, and Britta hears him refill his wine glass for the fifth time.

“I know you’re still awake,” he says after a while. Britta estimates it’s been about five minutes but the clock is on Jeff’s side of the bed. She doesn’t acknowledge him at all. “Okay, maybe you’re not. Or maybe you’re going to keep faking it. But could we just cool it on talking about guys you date in bed? It kills the mood. I don’t want to hear about your sex life unless it’s my sex life, too.”

He turns off the light and she feels him lay down, leaving a good amount of space between them. There are a ton of things she can say to that, mean things, vicious things, sappy things. She counts to one hundred in her head before she answers him.

“I didn’t have sex with him. Goodnight.”

He doesn’t reply.

 

**Rule #4: Eye contact is maintained at Jeff’s discretion only.**

Jeff stops mid-thrust and Britta freezes, waits to hear a knock at the door or a phone ring or something. “What’s wrong?” she asks, wondering if there’s food in her teeth; she had a spinach salad for dinner.

“Can you stop—looking at me?”

“Uh.”

He sighs. “Could you, like, close your eyes or something? It’s freaking me out to look down at you and have you looking back up.”

Britta can’t help it; she laughs and the look on Jeff’s face reminds her that it’s not nice to laugh when someone has their penis inside of you, especially when they’re not laughing, too. “Okay, okay,” she brings up a hand to stifle herself. “But you do realize that your face is inches away from mine, and you have a really big head, so looking at you is kind of the most sensible option right now.”

“I just,” he starts in that voice that means he’s struggling not to reveal something about himself because telling Britta important things is the worst that can happen to him. “I don’t want to make eye contact with you right now.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” she says slowly. “I’ll close my eyes. Now keep going.”

It works for about ten seconds. She keeps peeking through her lashes because not being able to see what’s going on—even if she physically can’t see what’s going on from her vantage point anyway—is freaking her out a little bit. She thinks she’s being pretty sneaky about it but he stops and huffs again.

“Britta.”

This whole thing is incredibly weird but she’s not going to say anything about it until afterward. Then, she thinks, making fun of him is totally fair game.

“I have an idea.” She wraps her hands around the back of his neck and brings his face down to hers. “Just kiss me while you’re doing it and you won’t have to look at me at all.” There’s a hint of sarcasm in her tone and he, the sarcasm messiah, recognizes it and makes a face at her.

But he kisses her anyway and _that_ works for longer than her trying to keep her eyes closed. It’s actually pretty good and she’s close, so close, when he pulls away.

“Stop. Wait.”

She throws her head back against the pillow and yells. “What _now_?”

“Could we maybe switch positions?”

“I’m sorry, is the presence of my face that disgusting to you?” she bites. “Maybe I should just wear a bag over my head next time.”

“Shut up. You know I think you have a nice face.” He pulls out and sits back on his knees. He looks absolutely ridiculous but she doesn’t laugh this time because she’s beginning to understand what’s going on.

“What if I get on top?” she asks.

He shrugs but lies down and she climbs on top of him and guides him into her. She tries her hardest to look anywhere but at him, focusing on the brushstrokes on the wall behind the bed because she is _so close_ to getting off and if he stops them one more time she might actually suffocate him with a pillow.

She does risk a peek at his face, though, right as she comes, and his eyes are screwed up tightly, as if he’s trying his hardest not to look at her. When he comes, it’s with a groan that makes him sound almost like he’s in pain. She collapses at his side, making it a point not to snuggle up next to him. She is flush against him, though, their shoulders touching.

“Sorry,” he says, eyes glued to the ceiling. “It’s.”

He doesn’t finish his sentence but he doesn’t trail off, either. And she gets it because she feels the same way but the way they differ is that Britta will throw herself at something that’s uncomfortable because it’s the lesser of two discomforts. Jeff will run away from both options.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’m going to take a shower.” He doesn’t follow her into the bathroom but she doesn’t really expect him to.

 

**Rule #5: Keep all kinks and fetishes private or suffer the consequences.**

Britta’s sitting alone in the study room when Troy and Abed walk in, talking excitedly about _The Cape_ , but  when they see her they freeze in the doorway. After a few seconds Troy starts giggling and Abed’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

“What?” Britta asks warily. “Does my hair look green under the fluorescents again? I _knew_ I should have stopped letting students from the barber class do my dye jobs.”

“It’s not that,” Troy squeaks out. Both boys sit down but Britta notices Abed scoot his chair just a little toward Troy and away from her.

“Then what is it? What’s so funny?”

Troy buries his head in his arms and high-pitched, muffled giggles emerge as his shoulders shake. Britta rounds on Abed and points a finger at him. “Abed. Tell me now.”

Abed tilts his head to one side and looks conflicted for a moment. Then, “Jeff told us about the thing with the dog cage.”

Britta’s heart drops somewhere past her stomach, like maybe into her small intestine. Then it rises back up to spread hot, angry blood through her veins.

Troy picks his head up slowly and leans into Abed. “Is she gonna explode?” he asks in a loud whisper, face completely sober.

“I’m going to fucking _murder_ Jeff Winger,” she shouts. “You two. You will forget you ever heard _anything_ about this. Or you’ll be next.” She stands up quickly, knocking her chair over in her haste. Giving them her best glare, she stomps out of the study room.

She ducks into a janitor’s closet and pulls the chain to turn on the light bulb overhead. Then she pulls out her phone and texts Jeff: _Hey come meet me in the janitor’s closet next to the Anthro room. Hurry! ;)_

(The winky face, Britta would like to point out, is deplorable in all situations except to lure guilty and unsuspecting men into dark rooms.)

_Be there in 2mins._

While she’s waiting Britta takes stock of the cleaning supplies on the shelf and wonders which one would be the easiest to pour into Jeff’s morning protein shake without him knowing.

The door opens and Jeff slips inside, a smug smirk already on his face. “Hey,” he says lowly, reaching a hand out to grab her by her belt loop.

“Hey,” she says, all faux-sweetness and she leans up to kiss him for a minute before biting down on his lip too hard to be sexy.

He yelps in pain and pulls back, brows knitting in confusion. “What was that for?” He runs a finger over his lip, then holds his hand up to show her the blood.

“Good.” She steps back and crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “ _You_ told Troy and Abed about the dog cage.”

“Yeah, well, _you_ told Troy and Abed about my nipples, so call it even.”

“That doesn’t count!” she protests. “I was drunk and you know it! It’s not my fault Troy wanted to throw a Mexican-themed Spring Break party and _only_ bought tequila! I can’t control what I say when I have too much tequila!”

“Then next time, don’t do so many body shots off of Quendra!”

“Oh please, you were the one egging me on! Every time I turned around you had a shot in one hand a lime wedge in the other!”

Jeff sighs and sucks his bleeding lip into his mouth. “Look, we’re even now, so it’s over. They both agreed not to say anything to anyone and I threatened them within an inch of their lives to stay quiet. Just, let’s keep those things between us from now on, okay?”

“Fine.”

“Okay. I’ll see you later. Please don’t bite me again. Or, if you do, not so hard.”

He leaves her standing alone in the closet and she rolls her eyes but slips a bottle of Pine-Sol into her bag on the way out.


End file.
